


Not In Love

by InsubstantialScribblings



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Catching Fire, F/M, Hayffie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:07:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24323263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsubstantialScribblings/pseuds/InsubstantialScribblings
Summary: An awkward phone call can be surprisingly revealing...
Relationships: Haymitch Abernathy/Effie Trinket
Comments: 4
Kudos: 102





	Not In Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EllanaSan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllanaSan/gifts).



> This is an idea that came to me after hearing 10cc's seventies hit "I'm Not In Love". I thought it could apply really well to Haymitch. Do have a listen if you don't know it. Any lyrics quoted or paraphrased in the text do not in any way belong to me.

NOT IN LOVE

Haymitch has been sitting in his study for more than an hour and he hasn’t moved so much as an inch. The only parts of his body to show any outward signs of life are his eyes which flick occasionally between two objects on the desk in front of him.

The first of these is an ancient telephone, rendered obsolete by his own hands decades ago, but recently restored to functionality at his escort’s behest some months after their district’s triumph at this year’s games. It’s a chunky heavy thing of long-since faded black plastic with numbers printed onto yellowing squares in its centre, thick cabling connecting the receiver to the base unit and the base unit to a point in the wall under the window. It’s nothing like the modern phones they have in the Capitol these days which are tiny and cordless and respond to voice commands. This telephone has been sitting here for nearly seventy-five years, ever since the construction of Victors’ Village and, in all that time, Haymitch has never made a single call. He’s received them though.

In the early days of his victory, veiled admissions of responsibility for his loved ones’ deaths were spoken down this very receiver, then details of unseasonal visits to the Capitol for appointments with his new Capitol fans began to be relayed. He’d lasted less than a year before ripping the damn thing out of the wall.

These past few months, since its return to serviceability, it has been ringing again, but there’s only ever one caller. Even the kids have no idea it’s operational again.

His eyes travel to the second object. Unlike the telephone, this one appears to have no place in this sombre, haughty, grand house. It’s a rectangular package the size of a large book, covered with expensive shiny wrapping paper in a geometric design of clashing reds, purples and pinks and held together with an ostentatious bright orange satin ribbon. It gives him a headache just looking at it. Only one person he knows would pick paper and ornaments like that.

He isn’t sure what’s happening to him. At any point before now, he would have simply tossed the cardboard box brought to him by the courier yesterday out onto his porch or kicked it into a corner of his hallway to lay forgotten and gathering dust forever but, this time, recognising the neat handwritten script of his address, he instead brought the parcel to his study, cut the tape and extracted this garish present.

His hand breaks the stillness in the room, reaching out and lifting the telephone receiver. He hears the dull buzz of the dialling tone and shakes his head in disbelief at his actions. This is stupid.

It’s been barely a week since they returned from the hellish Victory Tour and, despite the comparatively upbeat atmosphere in town, where the district’s residents are making the most of their increased energy following the Harvest Festival feast at the Capitol’s expense and the delivery of their latest food parcel, Haymitch knows that there is more trouble brewing.

It’s not her fault, but if Katniss’s stunt with the berries lit the gas under a cauldron of district unrest, then the tour has merely served to stir the pot. And it’s not just in the districts. In the Capitol this winter, Cinna tried to speak to him about resistance, an underground movement, but he shut him off. No good could possibly come of such reckless plotting and he refuses to risk the kids’ lives any further. It’s a burden though, carrying this knowledge around and having no one to share it with. No one in Twelve anyway.

There’s someone in the Capitol though. Someone with whom, upon their first meeting ten years ago, he’d never have dreamed of sharing a confidence.

Effie Trinket. Capitol starlet, Games fanatic, vacuous self-server. How he’d hated her back then. No one in the world had ever annoyed him so much. And perhaps the very most annoying thing she’d done was to get under his skin. He’d never had a problem ignoring irritating people before. Just blocked them out, drunk their voices into oblivion. He’d tried it with her. It hadn’t worked. For reasons he’s still unable to explain, he’d felt compelled to respond, to fight back with pithy retorts and clever put-downs. That’s how he’d discovered she could give as good as she got. Not the bimbo he’d taken her for. Her wit is quick and sharp and he’d soon found it to be a fuel to feed from, giving him a buzz he could no longer get from booze. He’d come to relish their sniping, their mutual insults, their now-legendary screaming matches. Inevitably it got their blood up. And, since he can’t deny she’s an attractive woman with a body to die for, after no more than a couple of years they’d begun to act physically on their animal attraction. She’s the best he’s ever had and, despite her long list of lovers, he knows it’s the same for her. That’s why they’ve never been able to leave each other alone, even though he used to swear it every year.

She’s changed over time. She’s never said so in words, but he knows she doesn’t love the Games anymore. It’s so much harder to enjoy the deaths of children when you’ve just spent a week eating breakfast with them and hearing about their families back home.

He’s seen the inner turmoil behind her eyes. She wants to love her country still, to believe in its goodness and benevolence, but the things she’s seen as an escort, the things he’s opened her eyes to, have made it impossible.

He’d avoided leaning on her in any meaningful way despite her epiphany. His life so far has taught him that you are better off, safer, alone. Until this year’s Games, that is.

Inspired for the first time in twenty years by Katniss’s determination to be given a chance, by Peeta’s unwavering support of that chance, he’d turned naturally to Effie. While he had honed the strategy, the practical advice, the timing of gifts, the connection with Katniss, she had been a whirlwind with the sponsors, the media, the presentation. They made a good team, there was no denying it. Without thinking about it, he’d found himself turning to her for support, for a second opinion, for ideas. They hadn’t dared to take their eyes off the ball, had spent most of the hours of every day in each other’s company. He thinks that’s how things began to slip, how the lines became blurred.

They were still fucking, just like every year. The constant tension of the kids’ precarious situation had meant they needed the release more than ever. But, rather than going their separate ways straight after, they’d fallen into a pattern of laying together afterwards, each silently drawing strength for the time ahead from the other’s presence.

Sometimes they’d talk over possible plans for the arena, prepare strategies for potential upcoming scenarios. It was exhausting and Haymitch had found himself falling asleep in her bed so many times that eventually he’d given up on any intention of moving and silently relocated to her suite.

And then the kids had won. A double victory, more than they could ever have hoped for, but surely at a price. Who but Effie could fully understand that terrible mix of joy, relief and fear? They’d fallen into each other’s embrace the moment they’d returned from checking on the comatose children at the Games clinic. There’d been no words spoken in the many hours that had followed as they’d slowly touched and kissed and found a temporary solace in each other. Haymitch had immediately squashed the little voice inside his head that had demanded to know if he had in fact not merely fucked Effie Trinket, but made love to her. Such a notion was unthinkable but, ever since, he’d been unable to shake off the feeling that he was aboard a train with no driver and no scheduled stops, hurtling dangerously into the unknown.

Effie had had his telephone fixed, had begun to call him regularly once he was back in Twelve. And, rather than ignoring the insistent ringing as he should have done, he’d found himself hunting out the old signal jammer Beetee had given him years ago and attaching it to the receiver so they could speak more freely. He’d told himself he’d be back in control by the time of the Tour, but it had been useless. Effie had knocked on his door early on departure day, having dispatched the stylists and prep teams to the kids’ houses and, despite his resolutions, Haymitch had been upstairs and buried deep inside her only moments later.

The more days that went by, the more district unrest that revealed itself, the more he found himself turning to her for reassurance, for advice, for escape. When the tribute train had departed Twelve last week with her on board he’d told her not to call him, then tried to tell himself he wasn’t pleased when she’d continued to do so anyway.

He’s never called her though. That would be crossing a line. So why is he sitting here with the telephone buzzing expectantly in his fist?

It’s her fault, of course. She’s forced his hand by sending him this package – social convention dictates he thank her. He slams the receiver down again. Since when has he cared for social convention? And yet, before he knows it, he has snatched it up again and pressed the first button where she stored her number the last time she was here.

She’s probably not there anyway, he muses as the call tries to connect. It’s the early hours of the morning here which means it’s late in the city and she’s more than likely at a party or out on a date.

The ring tone stops.

“Effie Trinket speaking. How may I help you?”

He’s wrong then. She’s still home after all.

“Hey,” he utters gruffly.

“Haymitch?” she asks uncertainly.

“Yeah. It’s me.”

Her breath catches in her throat and then he hears a whisper down the line, so faint it’s almost inaudible. “The children?”

“They’re fine. Everybody’s fine.”

She’s back to her perky self in an instant. “Well, in that case, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

She’s amused and it ruffles him. “Couldn’t sleep. Just thought I’d call. See how you were doing,” he admits awkwardly.

“You wanted to check I was all right?” She’s delighted at the unexpected attention, he can tell. “You never called before.”

“Yeah well, don’t make a big deal of it. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Of course not,” replies Effie in just the tone of voice you’d use to placate a recalcitrant toddler. “Still, Portia’s not going to believe it when I tell her!”

“Look, I’ve already said it’s no big deal. Nothin’ to go blabbing to your friends about. It’s just a weird phase I’m going through. A politeness phase. Reckon I’ve spent too much time with you and Peeta. Was just calling to say thanks for this psychedelic nightmare of a package you’ve sent me.”

Effie bristles. “Well, that is _no_ way to go about thanking someone!” she huffs. “If you didn’t like it, you needn’t have phoned at all.”

“Calm down,” soothes Haymitch. Since when has he cared about Effie’s hurt feelings?! “Didn’t say I didn’t like it. Wrapping paper’s hideous though. And what do I want with a big stupid bow?” He’ll give that to Prim, he thinks. She’s fond of hair ribbons, always wears them at the ends of her braids now.

Effie sighs. “I despair. You will never understand the importance of presentation.” Her voice drops half an octave. “So, you like the gift?” she asks hesitantly.

“Dunno,” he responds. “Haven’t unwrapped it yet.”

“Well, what are you waiting for?” she urges impatiently. “Do it now!”

Haymitch reaches for the present and pulls off the ribbon, tearing through the vile paper without the slightest bit of care. Nestled inside, lying on the desk, are two identical picture frames, stacked one on top of the other. Haymitch has never set much store by useless possessions, but even he can see that these are beautiful. The wood is a vibrant reddish brown, polished to a high sheen, and there’s a stunning depth to the grain and knots running through it.

“Well?” says Effie’s tentative voice. “What do you think? They’re mahogany. The finest quality. You can’t get mahogany in Seven. Four’s the only place. And the craftsmanship happens in District One.”

“They’re impressive,” states Haymitch genuinely. “Why send them to me though?”

“You have pictures to display now,” she ventures. “I saw when I came to collect you for the Tour. There’s one of the children propped up above your fireplace…”

It’s true. It’s from an official photoshoot, taken on the day of the post-Games interview with Caesar. He was given a whole sheaf of these photographs when they left the Capitol and he left most of them on the train, awful forced set-ups depicting false delight and happiness. He kept this one though. It must have been snapped between posed shots and the kids are looking at each other, in side profile to the camera and there’s such an understanding in their eyes… He doesn’t remember why he decided to put it on his mantelpiece; he worries enough that those kids have turned him soft.

“Good idea,” he mumbles into the phone. “It’ll protect it from the woodsmoke. But why’d you send two?”

There’s a pause on her end of the line. “For the other photograph,” she states and her words hang in the distance between them.

His stomach sinks. He knows exactly which photograph she means. It’s upstairs, taped to the wall in his bedroom and, until now, he hadn’t realised she knew about it, but of course, she was up there before the Tour and of course, she notices _everything_. It’s a shot from the same packet and obviously taken unawares. Effie is wearing a wig in a complicated braided style designed to resemble Katniss’s hair on the day of the reaping. It’s pale mauve in hue and, when the lights are dimmed, Haymitch can almost convince himself that it’s not a wig at all, but her natural hair that she lets him see increasingly often now. He likes the picture because for once it does not capture her perfect escort’s mask, that image that she projects to the world. She’s wearing an expression of deep and caring concentration, clearly absorbed in overseeing the children’s interviews. She looks beautiful.

He’s told himself he’s put it there to help things along on cold, lonely winter nights but he knows deep down that’s only half true. He gets a strange comfort from seeing her there, a weird kind of strength. He’ll never tell her that though.

“You spotted that, did you?” he asks gruffly. “Well, don’t go reading anything into it. I threw a bottle of red wine against that wall once. It’s the perfect size for covering the stain.”

“Perhaps I should ask for it back in that case,” replies Effie breezily. “It’s rather a nice shot and I don’t have a copy. I could send you some replacement wallpaper instead.”

“You ain’t getting’ it back,” he tells her firmly. “Cos I’m used to it being there now. No other reason,” he adds.

“Of course. No other reason,” she says and he can hear the smile in her voice. “It doesn’t mean that much to you, I understand perfectly.”

Without prompting she moves the conversation along to safer topics and, before he knows it, half an hour has passed.

“Best let you go,” he says eventually. “Don’t want to make you late for whatever you’ve got planned.”

Effie sighs. “I _had_ better start getting ready. I’m going out to dinner.”

“A date?” asks Haymitch. It’ll be best for them both if it is, he tells himself firmly, in spite of the rush of unmistakeable jealousy he feels beginning to swirl in his gut.

“No, not a date. A gossipy meal with girlfriends.” She pauses. “I’ve taken myself off the dating scene for now.”

“Oh?” he enquires with false nonchalance. “And why is that?”

“Well…” Effie stalls for a moment. “There just do not seem to be any interesting people out there right now. And besides…”

“And besides?” he echoes.

“Well, there is this one guy I’ve kind of set my heart on. But he’s not exactly local. He’s away a lot.”

“I see.” Haymitch’s voice comes out a little croaky and he clears his throat. “Seems like you’ll have to wait a long time for him.”

“Yes,” she replies sadly. “But I think I will. I _will_ wait.”

Haymitch swallows down the lump in his throat. “Your friends might not though. Best get ready for your dinner.”

“Yes,” she agrees regretfully. “Give my love to the children, won’t you? I’ll call you next week.”

“Whatever,” he responds. “If you want.” And with that he puts down the receiver before he can say something stupid.

Picking up the first of the photo frames, he heaves himself out of his seat and makes for the stairs. Whatever this silly phase is, he hopes it passes soon. Yet, as he carefully detaches the picture from the wall and opens the back of the frame, a tingle of simultaneous dread and excitement courses through his veins and he knows all at once and with a terrible certainty that it won’t.


End file.
